Of Little Knights and Snowball Fights
by SydneyLouWho
Summary: When Jon Snow left for the Wall, he knew that he would miss Arya the most. Vignettes of the Stark family pre-AGoT, but mainly focuses on Jon Snow and Arya.


**Many thanks to Ray (liliths) for beta-ing this and offering suggestions.**

* * *

When the youngest Stark daughter was born, Jon Snow was not allowed to see her.

It wasn't a surprise to him; it was the same when Sansa was born, and it would be the same with every Stark child. Lady Stark just couldn't bear the thought of her beautiful newborn babies being tainted by the grubby fingers of her husband's young bastard, so she tried her hardest to keep him away, and Ned, after seeing her endure so much pain to deliver their child, could deny her none of her wishes.

And so, for a few weeks after each of her babies' births, Catelyn had the family she'd always wanted, with children all born with Tully and Stark blood fused within their veins.

The first time that Jon met Arya was nearly two full moons after her birth. The first thing he noticed was that she was much smaller than Sansa had been as a newborn, having been born earlier than anticipated (later, they would joke that her premature birth was fitting, because Arya could not sit still for two minutes, let alone nine full months). She already looked like a Stark, all dark hair and grey eyes. She cooed as Jon touched her hand with his small fingers, and he looked across the room at Catelyn for approval, who met his gaze briefly and promptly averted her eyes. Her tiny hand wrapped around his index finger, and he laughed.

"She likes you," his father told him, and Catelyn shot him a pointed look from across the room.

Even when Sansa was a baby, she had been rather quiet and well-behaved. This baby, on the other hand, was squirmy and fussy and cried a lot. Jon liked this about her (although he could often hear her screams from his bedchamber down the hall); baby Sansa had been a bit boring.

* * *

Jon would often watch Catelyn with Arya. He would watch her sway gently as she tried to coax the infant to stop crying. He would listen to her soft, sweet words and her singing, songs about summer and meadows and golden skies. It was a side of Lady Stark that he'd never experienced.

Even at five years old, Jon Snow knew what it meant to be a bastard. He didn't know how he came to be a bastard, of course, but he knew that he was different than the rest of them. He knew that Lady Stark hated him and had a good reason to hate him. He knew that he never should've been born. Of course, the infant Arya didn't know of his bastard label; she gave Jon the same open-mouthed smile that she would give Robb or Sansa when they visited her cradle. Everyone is equal in the eyes of a babe who does not yet understand the concepts of family or honor. Jon hoped that she never would.

* * *

Arya eventually did learn the meaning of both family and honor. However, she never treated Jon as anything other than a brother.

* * *

"Jon, what's a bastard?" Arya asked one day as they played by the stables. She was nearing her fourth nameday and had grown into a curious child, always asking questions and wanting to explore.

Jon looked at his feet. He feared that Arya would no longer think of him as her brother once she knew the truth and would treat him as Sansa had begun to treat him, as her disgraceful half-brother. But he couldn't lie to Arya, who looked at him with those curious eyes, eyes that matched his in shade and shape but lacked the underlying sadness that found its permanent home in Jon Snow's eyes.

"A bastard," he began, trying to find the right words, "is one who is born out of a marriage."

"Are you a bastard, Jon?"

"Yes," he replied softly. "Lady Stark is not my mother."

Arya pondered this. "Then she's not my mother too," Arya said with certainty. She poked Jon with the tree branch that she'd been using as a makeshift sword while they played knights, and he smiled.

"That's not how it works, little sister," he said, poking her belly with his own crooked branch and causing her to giggle. "You can't choose your mother. I would have chosen differently if that were the case."

"Well that's just not fair," she argued, a look of defiance upon her young face.

"Sometimes things aren't," he replied, more to himself than to her.

Just then, Robb came running up, Tully blue eyes brimming with excitement. "Look what father just gave me!" he exclaimed, showing off the small wooden sword that he held in his hands. "Now I can be a _real_ knight." He sliced the air with his new sword proudly.

"Real knights don't use wooden swords," Arya retorted, "and I bet I could still beat you."

Robb laughed. "I'd like to see you try."

Jon and Arya exchanged mischievous looks and, almost simultaneously, held their branches at the ready, imitating what they'd seen skilled sword fighters do many times before. Robb laughed, and the great battle began.

* * *

It was a particularly warm day when Arya decided to run away.

She'd been gone for several hours, but she didn't make it far; she was hiding in the stables when Jon found her.

"Now, what do you think you're doing in here," he asked. "We were all worried that you'd be gone forever." It wasn't true, because everyone knew that the guards would never allow her to slip through the gates, but he knew that it would please her to think that they saw her as clever enough to escape.

She shrugged. "I didn't know where else to go."

"Well, why did you leave?"

"I don't know. Just because, I guess." It wasn't surprising; Arya was always trying to test the limits and find out what she could get away with. She grinned. "Did you really think I'd escaped?"

"Of course," he said, grabbing her hands and pulling her out of the hay, "you're the only one clever enough to get past the guards. I thought I'd lost you, little sister. And who else would I play tricks on Sansa with?"

She pondered this question. "Bran, maybe, once he's old enough. But I could never really leave. I'd miss you too much. If I ever do run away, I promise I'll take you with me."

The streets were crowded and the light was fading as they made their way toward the Great Hall, where the rest of their family had surely already begun to eat their suppers. Jon held Arya's hand to keep her near him as they pushed through the sea of people. A merchant dressed in worn clothing ran into Jon and their shoulders bumped slightly. "Filthy bastard," the man grumbled. Jon was used to these comments, since everyone in Winterfell knew of Ned Stark's bastard son, but he could feel Arya growing tense.

"Hey!" Arya yelled, grabbing the man by his sleeve to get his attention. He laughed, his yellowed teeth showing. "How dare you speak to my brother like that. He is the son of Lord Stark and I will see that he hears about this."

The man and his friends snickered as Arya stomped away, with Jon following closely behind.

"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly, "I am a bastard."

"Maybe," she replied, "but you aren't filthy." She leaned closer and made a sniffing noise. "Well, maybe just a little."

* * *

All of the Stark children's favorite days were the days of the summer snow.

One day, when the snow was deep and soft, Ned Stark took his children on a trip beyond the hunter's gate, and allowed them to play in the fields just beyond Winterfell. Catelyn had stayed behind, in part because she was much too far along with her fifth child to be moving around comfortably, and in part because she simply hated the snow.

Arya was the first to make a snowball. She packed the snow tight and hard with her gloved hands and sent it flying toward Sansa. The snowball hit her right in the back of her head and fell down her neck. "Arya!" she yelled, before she even looked to see who the culprit was.

"It wasn't me, it was Jon," Arya lied, grinning. She had recently lost her two front teeth, and her smile was gap-toothed and silly.

"You're such a liar," Sansa retorted, although she was smiling still.

"Maybe it _was_ me," Jon said, revealing a pile of snowballs that he had been making with Bran.

And so the snowball war commenced.

Arya immediately joined Jon and Bran's team, so Ned and Robb joined Sansa. Robb led his team like the leader he was, commanding Sansa to make snowballs while his father and he dodged the balls of snow that were now being hurled at them from all directions. Robb's team used a large pile of snow as a barrier. Ned allowed Robb to be the commander of their group, and they worked together like an army, their moves calculated and intentional, throwing Sansa's meticulously-made snowballs over the wall.

The other side, however, was more wild, and they had no leader and no strategy, other than to ambush Robb's side with snowballs from all directions. Bran climbed a small tree and used the snow from its branches to hit Robb's team from over their wall while Arya and Jon sent snowballs into the air, hoping that they'd rain down on the others. Arya decided to go straight for their defenses, diving into the snow pile that they'd been using to protect themselves. Once their protection was gone, Jon and Arya worked together to shower Robb, Sansa, and Ned with snow.

They all reentered Winterfell laughing, rosy-cheeked, and soaked from the snow. None were aware that their happy, carefree days were numbered.

* * *

When Jon Snow left for the Wall, he knew that he would miss Arya the most. He only wished that he could bring her with him; he knew, as they all did, that she would hate King's Landing.

Leaving Winterfell, he had a strange feeling that he would never return, but he was unaware that his family was soon to be broken. He was unaware that he would never see his father proud of him for his service and his honor, would never again see the pained look that flashed on Catelyn's face whenever she saw him (although this was not such a loss), would never meet Robb as the lord of Winterfell or see Arya excel at swordplay or Bran climbing the walls of the castle or Rickon growing up.

And, perhaps, if he had known these things, he would not have left.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! I appreciate all feedback, whether it's compliments or criticism, so don't be afraid to tell me what you thought.**


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